


Epiphora

by aaaaaggggghhhhh



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dissociation, F/F, Fairy Circles, Human Bill Cipher, Magic, Nonbinary Bill Cipher, Nonbinary Character, Nudity, Post-Canon, Post-Weirdmageddon, Reincarnation, Sleeping Together, Trans Bill Cipher, Trans Character, Transgender Bill Cipher, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 04:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12927957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaaaaggggghhhhh/pseuds/aaaaaggggghhhhh
Summary: hi! this is my first published fic, and first cohesive thing ive ever written. its probably not great, but i did my best! i hope u like it, and feel free to give me tips but dont be r00d, thanks! also, IMPORTANT NOTE: i switch pronouns for bill!!! a LOT!!! just because like... idk i cant imagine him taking gender super seriously. its not a genderbend tho. okay thats it!





	Epiphora

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my first published fic, and first cohesive thing ive ever written. its probably not great, but i did my best! i hope u like it, and feel free to give me tips but dont be r00d, thanks! also, IMPORTANT NOTE: i switch pronouns for bill!!! a LOT!!! just because like... idk i cant imagine him taking gender super seriously. its not a genderbend tho. okay thats it!

When the pallid, mud-caked creature that claimed to be Bill Cipher presented itself to Ford on the shack's doorstep one particular sun spattered April afternoon, Ford's immediate reaction was that it was some kind of dream, a hallucination even, but not reality. He stood in a shocked, confused silence, looking slightly downward and angrily flustered at the figure that presented itself, and he knew it was real - starstruck, an ethereal glow, a depth that even he will never truly comprehend - encapsulated within a pearlpale face that shone like the moon, surrounded by dark, knotted hair - Amber brown eyes, that, when the smattered sunlight hit them they were gold, gold, gold, there was no mistaking - a concealed smile, dripping with honey-sweet malice, pleading with him - won’t you please just listen to me, Stanford? And the scientist was overcome with such a rushing sense of panic, that he thought he might collapse.

He firmly and quickly ushered the figure inside with no further conversation (as it passed Stanford could only smell dirt, flowers, decaying trees; the intoxicating scent of the forest) And he turned, grabbing it by its shoulders, shaking it, demanding to know how it had returned.

She recounted her experience (cacophonous voice, allusive hands, oh how he missed them both) and the feeling of burning, burning, burning, how long it lasted and how deep it bore - how when it was over, the waves that crashed over her, cooling, soothing, were a messiah despite the salt filling her wounds - and then she saw it; Standing in the shallow sea not far off from the shore where she landed, it offset the blues of the water and sky with the shocking white-pink of its flesh; The smile on it was hypnotic, mollifying her in a way she hadn't felt for eons. She basked in the feeling, closing her eye as if she were a cat sunning in a window, it let her rest like this for as long as she pleased (how long, how long, she remembers time being absolutely nonexistent in this space) when the water fully dried off of her form, she opened her eye to face the merciful beast - and then, she woke up. A fairy circle, moss and mold, she knew she must be dead - but her legs worked, she had a newfound internal compass, and only one place to go.

Ford was quiet - hidden hands, uncertain looks, humming to himself - before he finally took it downstairs to his lab. Elevator descending, lost in thought, what did it come back for - exiting the elevator, he didn't have to ask for it to follow - and before he could do anything, he crumpled over, shaking on the tiled floor.

A hand on his arm -

Ford looked over and Bill’s eyes, reflecting the light of a myriad of machines, looked almost concerned - suddenly Ford was 28, napping under a birch tree, and he was 32, constructing death itself with a sweet voice in the back of his mind, and he was 50, in places no human should have ever stepped foot - and he was right here, right now, all at once, remembering things he wasn’t aware he was trying to forget.

Soft laugh, electricity, Stanford’s chest and his head and his arm in the exact places where those small fingers pressed were on fire - he was burning to death, and he wondered if this was even a fraction of how it felt for Bill and his brother.

_Are you okay sixer? Are you gonna run your tests yet? I can’t do anything, I promise -_

I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise I promise -

Yes. Please step onto the scale.

Blood drawn, charts grafted, bright light shone into even brighter eyes, and the only conclusion Stanford could come to was that Bill either had no powers, or they were so faint that one could not use them to lift a pen off of his desk. The worst she could do would be to find a rogue scalpel and shove it into Stanford’s heart - which, of course, he had taken precautions to avoid. Hands bound, Bill shifted nervously in her chair. Ford could only stare at her.

Bill was clothed in some kind of amalgamation of various black robes, dresses, and skirts. She was also incredibly, incredibly dirty - covered in mosses, dirt, rotting leaves - Ford wondered how long she had been asleep on the forest floor.

Deep inhale. Exhale. He knew what he had to do next.

Well, if you’re staying here, he explained - and yes, you are staying here, I’m not just letting you roam the woods - you’re going to have to get cleaned up. Yes Bill, a bath. There is an earthworm in your hair, Bill.

The elevator ride was awful, intrusive, Bill at his side, a hand creeping around his neck, a hand inching up the back of his shirt, a hand wrapped around his ankle - he blinks and there are no hands on him at all, hands still bound, but now he is flesh melting and bone marrow popping and bubbling inside a molten flame and he is a star burning out with a supernova light and - they had reached the main floor. It was dark.

Clothes shed, masses of black fabric and plant viscera covering the bathroom floor, Ford notes that Bill has an average human form. Pale, soft, opulent, and, of course, more beautiful than anything Ford has ever seen - (moonlight, Bill was sculpted by moonlight) - but he remains levelheaded and assertive. Of course, despite the blistering in his belly, he is still obviously and reasonably affronted with Bill. So, you sit there, and I’ll run you a bath, alright?

Of course, he forgot he would probably have to supervise Bill at all times - (the enigma, it tried to drown itself thrice) - and he tried desperately to ignore everything going on in front of him that wasn’t an immediate emergency. He thought about it staying here (where else would it go?) but that entailed so much - explaining the situation, nobody would be happy - could he keep it hidden? The only one who went downstairs was him, after all - what if someone saw? What if it got out? It would probably try, or at least beg - it hated being trapped. Isn't that how this started?

Discordant voice pulling him from within his thoughts, it suggested it was finished - _look! Look at my fingertips!_ \- So the scientist shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs and the daydreams, giving Bill a once-over; he was no longer caked with mud and mushrooms, and it looked like one could run a comb through his hair if they so desired; so yes, he supposed they were done here.

Wrapped in a towel (or two, or three) Bill shivered and hiccuped down the halls of the shack, into Ford's room (as hard as he tried to herd it downstairs, it beelined to its desired destination far too fast for him) and plopped down onto his bed. Ford tossed its way an old sweater (yellow, worn soft, a few holes in it) that ate Bill up despite his newly acquired, nearly childish layer of fat - and after turning away again and then back once more, Ford was displeased to see that Bill had almost instantly fallen asleep on his bed after dressing. He had wanted to construct it a place to sleep in the basement - but lord, he was tired.

He sighed, moved it over (it was so soft, so yielding) kicked off his boots, and crawled onto the bed next to it. He couldn’t leave it alone, didn’t yet know what was an act, had to watch it at all times - but what he was seeing only put him at ease. Earthly skin wrapped in mothlight and effulgence, breathing in and out, chest rising and falling; he felt that familiar pull, the feeling of Bill drawing him in; and he closed his eyes.

He did not dream.

  
.

 

_Oh After the years, we've been together_  
_The joy and tears and all kinds of weather_  
_Someday, blue and downhearted_  
_You'll long to be with me right back where you started_  
_After I'm gone, after I'm gone away ._

**Author's Note:**

> wow, thanks so much for reading! it wasn't as long as i wanted it to be, but whatever. ill probably (most likely) write more billford shit soon anyways so... yeah! thanks again!


End file.
